


Retribution

by cleoselene



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleoselene/pseuds/cleoselene
Summary: What if the Brotherhood had revived Robb after the Red Wedding?  What if Margaery and the rest of House Tyrell escaped Cersei's empowerment of the Faith Militant?  A Robbaery AU.





	1. Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on, as accurately as possible, 100% television show canon. Sorry folks, haven't read all the books. ;) Thanks to nyx4 for beta-reading. I'm hoping to finish this one in five chapters, with a chapter posted each day. Or so that's the goal! Thank you for reading my first foray into writing GoT fic.

It was hard for him to remember much of that night, but what he did remember was drenched in blood and horror. 

He saw his bride stabbed in the belly, over and over again as if the damned Freys knew his child was inside.   Like they were making a point: You, your son, your wife, your mother.   You are all dying tonight.

And die they did.  He remembered blood on his hands from clutching Talisa's belly.   He remembered the way the color left her face, that beautiful olive skin he adored turning deathly pale. Her mouth had hung open and her eyes were wide, as if she had never gotten past the pure shock of the moment.

He remembered, too, the desperate pleading cries of his mother, and he remembers rising to his feet.  She had a girl in her arms, a blade at her throat, and dimly, through the haze of pain and grief, he realized this was Walder Frey's latest child bride.  What sense in killing the girl, he wanted to ask.

It was all over, anyway.  

He decided to tell her to let the girl go, but only one word came out of his mouth:  "Mother."

And then Roose Bolton was in his face, close enough to feel his breath as his former ally hissed, "The Lannisters send their regards."

The blade pierced his heart and the last thing he remembered of that night was the unholy scream of his mother.   Then everything went black.

The darkness was all that waited.  There was a peace in the darkness.   He couldn't see Talisa's blood-drained face, or hear his mother's scream.  The darkness enveloped him and he surrendered to it.

 

* * *

 

He gasped himself awake, and he then heard a cheer and the sound of two men clinking their cups of ale together. 

"The Lord shines upon you, Robb Stark," the one with the longer hair said.   

The one with the eyepatch just stared at him for a long moment, until finally concluding,  "He looks like the Blackfish did when he was young.  A bit." 

The light hurt his eyes, and when another man offered him a cup of water, he took it.  There was an ashen taste in his mouth -- the taste of death.  He was dead.   Gods, weren't they all dead?

He looked at the two men today and realized they were familiar.  "I've seen you before."  They were the first words he'd spoken since awakening from the enveloping darkness.  He recognized them, now.

They were at Edmure's wedding.   

Immediately on alert, he reached for a sword that wasn't at his hip.  No knife tucked in his boot, either.  

"Sorry, your grace, but we took your weapons for now.  We don't see you as an enemy, but precautions are precautions.  We served your father when he was Hand of the King... now we serve the realm.  I'm Beric Dondarrion.  This is Thoros of Myr.  We're with the Brotherhood Without Banners."

Robb rubbed a hand over his forehead, feeling a pulsing pounding in his temples.  He had questions, too many questions.  He'd heard of the Brotherhood; they'd been wreaking havoc against Lannister forces for some time, much to his own advantage.  But the first thing that came out of his mouth were the obvious words. 

"I was dead."

"Aye,"  Thoros declared.  "And you will be again someday.  But not today." 

Robb stared at both of them, remembering them in Frey guard clothing, not what they were wearing now.  But he saw them there, he saw them come near before the end came. 

"How?"  Robb felt a little simple in the moment.  It was all more than he could process.  And he didn't see Talisa here, didn't see his mother.   Did they bring him back to life only to be without the ones he loved?  That unsettled feeling lingered, like something was not quite right, and it must have shown in his face. 

Thoros shrugged.  "Because the Lord willed it."  It felt like a ridiculous answer to Robb. 

Beric offered him a tall mug of ale.   "You feel strange at first, especially the first time.  I've gotten used to dying, but you feel like something’s missing, don't you?" 

Robb took the mug of ale, gulping it down quickly after setting the water aside.  It helped him feel a warmth inside, and did much better to cleanse the taste of death from his mouth than the water had done.  He ignored Lord Beric's strange words about multiple deaths; he didn't care.  After downing most of the mug, he looked at them and asked the question that he wasn't sure he wanted an answer to. 

"What of my wife and mother?  Talisa was with child, and Mother..." 

Beric placed a hand on Robb's shoulder, and Robb had to resist the urge to shake it off.  He remembered Father saying Lord Beric was an honorable man.   He would listen to an explanation. 

"We barely got you out, your grace.  The wanted us to take your head and replace it with the head of your wolf's.  They think they got what they wanted, but it was not your body under the wolf's head they paraded around.  We switched your clothes with another corpse after we got you out of there.  By the time what they think is your head arrives at King's Landing as Joffrey requested, it'll be so rotted that it could be anybody.   You're going to stay dead for a while, I'm afraid.  Gonna have to cut that pretty hair off, maybe shave that beard.  Put some goldenrod dye in your hair and you'll be a new man.  Just another member of the Brotherhood,"  Beric explained. 

"You mean to take me somewhere."  It was more of a statement than a question.  " And who will you sell me to?  The Lannisters are probably the highest bidders, but I don't think you and your friends are welcome in King's Landing, either,"  Robb stated, taking another sip of ale. 

He felt numb.   There was a plan here, and his gut told him they meant to help.  They had to move forward.  Mother would want him to keep going, for Sansa and Arya.  Talisa would want him to go on, too, because she treasured the value of each and every life.  Whether it was a slave in Volantis or a fallen Lannister soldier, Talisa believed in everyone having the chance to live.

A flash of Talisa, lying there dead and pale with a red belly came to his mind.  He had been such a fool to let her near those glorified bridge trolls.  He should have listened to his mother.  Walder Frey was not the sort of man you cross. 

But it wasn't just Lord Walder.  It was Roose Bolton, his own ally, and the Lannisters.  Bolton made sure he knew that.  "The Lannisters send their regards."    

The words would haunt his nightmares for years to come, he had no doubt, followed by his mother's scream.  It seemed unfair that he still lived.  It seemed wrong.  And he felt guilty for thinking it.  What man wouldn't grab the chance to return from death?  He went over their words in his head, how they dragged him and switched his clothes with another, how they'd sewn Grey Wind's head onto a corpse-- 

"Have some more ale, lad,"  Thoros said, pouring some into his cup.  "We'll talk about where we're going tomorrow.  We stay here tonight, and you've been through a lot.  The whole world thinks you're dead, and you were, but we all need rest.  Including you." 

Robb didn't acknowledge the man's words, or bother to correct him on his proper title, just kept sipping his ale and staring at the fire.  He did take a moment to look around for what "here" actually was, and it appeared to be a cavern of some sorts.  Men slumbered all around him, wearing the same shabby clothes they'd put him in, sleeping on the cold ground with rocks as pillows, looking as comfortable as if they lay on feather beds. 

He continued to drink and stare at the fire.  "The whole world thinks you're dead."  He knew the strategic point Thoros was trying to make there, but he couldn't help but think that the whole world was half-right.  Pieces of him were missing.  His wife, his child, his mother, his wolf.   All gone, and for what?  For his bad decisions.  He should have left Talisa to tend to the wounded.   He should have married the damned Frey girl and they'd all be alive.  He let his heart run away with his head in a moment of weakness and loneliness.  And his family, and many of his troops, he suspected, paid the price. 

He would have to repay it.  The Lannisters were not the only ones who paid their debts. 

He drank ale until he was too numb and too inebriated to stay awake.  Both his father and mother would disapprove, he knew, they both preached restraint with drink.  But he needed it tonight, he needed it so he wouldn't be seen sobbing in front of grown men. 

If he was even capable of tears.  He still felt numb, like none of it was quite real at all. 

When sleep came, he did not find the rocky cave floor as comfortable as the other men seemed to.   His sleep was fitful, full of angry dreams, of Talisa's pale face and his mother's wrenching cry of anguish.

 

* * *

 

The next day was full of more questions, and he asked them despite the screaming headache that had accompanied him when he awoke and climbed onto the horse they offered him.  The Brotherhood seemed knowledgeable about the state of the Kingdoms, and when he learned more about them, he wasn't surprised.  They roamed the Riverlands, hearing news from the north and south wherever they stopped.  They told him of holding Arya briefly, and he felt anger at the fact that they let her slip away, but then he realized, that's just like Arya.  Sneaking away like a quick little cat.  He wondered where she was.   He wondered if she yet lived.   He said a silent prayer in his head to the Mother, the Stranger, and the Old Gods to protect his littlest sister. 

The rumors from the north were grim.  Last he'd heard from Winterfell, Theon had taken the castle.  But now Roose's bastard held Winterfell, and the rumor was that Theon had killed his younger brothers.   The news from the south was little better-- Sansa, poor, beautiful, gentle Sansa -- had been wedded to the Imp.  It felt like a cruel joke of Tywin Lannister's, marrying the north's princess to a man known for his lechery.  He may not be able to save his brothers, but he would not give up on rescuing Sansa from that torment, nor would he stop looking for Arya.  Once he had some men, he would set them out to find her. 

The men he rode with offered other answers, too.  Such as how they were there at the wedding.  He was told that they heard rumors of Lord Walder's betrayal, and while they took no sides in the war, they did not want to let Frey get away with killing a king inside his own home.   

"The Lord will make him answer for his crimes," Thoros had declared.  Robb held his tongue from saying the Lord could hang, that _he_ would make Walder Frey answer for his crimes.  

They told him, too, that they believed both his uncles lived still.  The Blackfish was missing, and Edmure was held prisoner by the Freys.  He was grateful for small blessings, but he also felt like a dishonorable man, thinking he would have traded their lives for his mother's and Talisa's if he had the chance, without hesitation. 

As for their destination: well, it would be the Eyrie.  The only place that made sense, really.  His Aunt Lysa lived there, and his father had fought in battle with Lord Yohn Royce in the past.  The Knights of the Vale were honorable, and Aunt Lysa was family.   The Brotherhood meant to collect their reward from the Vale, and then to go on their way. 

He was indeed disguised as they'd discussed, and he felt strange, pretending to be someone he was not.  He was also told that it might not be a quick trip.  The Brotherhood stopped when they needed to, when they spotted raiders and outlaws and soldiers terrorizing the people.  He wanted to get on with it, but he could not complain.   It didn't seem right, after all they'd done for him. 

Every day on the long, slow march to the Vale, they'd stop and fight, rescuing peasants and innkeepers from criminals.  He lost track of time as the days and weeks slipped by.  He fought next to the Brotherhood, not just because they had rescued him, but he came to see their cause as noble.   

And every day, the people they saved had news, news that came from all directions.  Roose Bolton was named Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North by King Joffrey.  King Joffrey himself was soon to marry Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden.  The wedding was supposed to be the grandest affair the kingdoms had seen for some time, no surprise since it was the two wealthiest families in Westeros marrying.   As loathsome as the idea of Sansa marrying Lord Tyrion was, he was glad it was not his sister marrying Joffrey.  He knew nothing of this Lady Margaery, but he pitied her already. 

He did not mind fighting with the Brotherhood.  Battle got his mind off the pain of... everything.  The smiling faces of the people they helped made him feel a little better, if only for the briefest of moments.  He found the religion of the Brotherhood strange, but he said nothing about their Lord of Light.   Maybe it  _ was _ their god who brought him back.  Maybe it was because of the Old Gods, or the Seven.   Whatever it was, he didn't understand why he lived while the ones he loved died.  

His head was often filled with too many thoughts like this, so he welcomed every opportunity to fight against the bandits and rapers terrorizing the Riverlands.  Blood might not be able to wash away blood, but the sense of justice he got from helping people was something of a balm.

What would his father think, he wondered sometimes.  What would his mother think?  He was living, but it was the life of an outlaw, even if they were outlaws who fought other outlaws.  "I raised more than rebels," Mother had told him once. 

And yet, he was enjoying the battle more than he ever did, finding the fight an escape from the swirling, painful thoughts in his head.   He was raised to be more than this, yes, to be Lord of Winterfell, to look after his people, not to wander through the countryside like a nomadic vigilante.  But his blade was as sure and confident as it ever was, even if he did sorely miss Grey Wind fighting by his side. 

Over more time and through more villages came more news.  Joffrey's wedding had taken place -- and Joffrey himself had died during the feast.  There were conflicting reports over how the deed was done, but he heard that the Imp had been accused of the crime.  It made him more anxious for Sansa, for there was no word of her anywhere they looked.  Not for weeks, until they were almost to the Bloody Gate, did he hear that Sansa had disappeared from King's Landing.  So he had two sisters in the wind, two brothers likely dead.  He couldn't just fight for family anymore.  It had to be about justice.

 

* * *

 

Robb wasn't sure how much time had passed by the time they reached the Bloody Gate leading to the Eyrie.  And when they did arrive, the guardians of the gate told them that Lady Arryn was dead.  The Brotherhood groaned in disappointment, but Robb recognized the Knight of the Gate.  Ser Donnel Waynwood.  He'd visited Winterfell before, years ago, and he hoped the man would recognize his face.  He dismounted his horse and held his hands up, lest any of the guards of the bloody gate detect it as a hostile move. 

"Ser Donnel," Robb called out as he approached.  "Do you remember me?  I saw you at Winterfell once.  You came to visit Winterfell with Lord Royce, when he was escorting his son to the Wall."  

Robb ran a hand through his hair, shaking some of the powdery coloring they'd peppered it with to disguise him to reveal the true color of his hair.   "I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North." 

Ser Donnel squinted his eyes and walked closer.  "Robb Stark is dead," he declared.  "Everyone knows that." 

"Everyone _thinks_ that,"  Robb replied.  He searched his mind, trying to remember a detail of Ser Donnel's visit.  "My father let you tour the crypts.   You wanted to pay respect to the dead of our family.  I came with you, I carried a torch.  You told him how sorry you were about his sister, my Aunt Lyanna.  The she reminded you of your cousin when you heard the stories of her.  Strong and wild and brave."  

Ser Donnel's eyes widened after a moment, as if it took the man some time to process the truth of Robb's words.  "And who are these men with you, if you are Robb Stark?  They do not carry Stark banners." 

Robb nodded faintly, lowering his hands.  "We were trying to keep a low profile.  Please, tell me what happened to my aunt.   Was it the Lannisters?" 

Ser Donnel's countenance grew dark.  "That, your grace, is what we are trying to deduce at this very moment."

 

* * *

 

The Brotherhood's payment would have to wait.  For the moment, the men he'd come to look to as friends and allies were feasting in the great hall of the Eyrie, enjoying finer food and ale and wine than they'd had in a long time, perhaps ever.  

Robb did not join them, though.  He followed Ser Donnel, who'd given his post at the Bloody Gate to his next in command, wasting no time to bring Robb to the tribunal.  The delicate matter of Lady Arryn's death was not something he would normally interrupt, but it was not normal for a king to rise from the dead, either. 

Ser Donnel had given him the details, that Littlefinger had arrived with a niece, had wed Lady Arryn, and that Lady Arryn had committed suicide soon after.  A tribunal had been called to see the truth of it.  Robb thought a tribunal seemed appropriate, what bride throws herself to her death just after her wedding? 

They had just opened up the door to the tribunal room when he heard a girl's voice.  It was barely more than a whisper, but he'd recognize it anywhere.   

"I'm sorry Lord Baelish, I have to tell the truth." 

Robb brushed himself past Ser Donnel without apology.  He could make his excuses later. 

"Sansa!"  He exclaimed, and the girl whirled around.   He saw his mother's red hair.  She was taller, like she'd grown a whole foot since the last time he saw her.  There were other people in the room, but at the moment, all he saw was her.  Gods, she looked like Mother, like he remembered Mother looking when he was little, before her face was lined with worry and fear.

Sansa gasped and rushed toward him, grabbing him in an embrace that almost knocked him over, but his arms wrapped around her quickly, tightly.   He didn't expect to see such close family here at the Eyrie, especially Sansa.  He squeezed his eyes tightly as he held her for what seemed like a very long time as the other people in the room murmured around him.  He felt hot tears leak against his neck as she clung to him, as if he weren’t real.  He wasn’t sure sometime if he was real himself, but holding his sister, his own flesh and blood, made that feeling easier. 

"Your grace," he heard a voice speak finally, clearly directed at him, and his eyes turned to see a man he did not recognize.  But before he could get a word out, Sansa turned to the tribunal.  One of the three he recognized as Lord Royce, and Lord Royce was looking at him as if he had seen a ghost. 

Sansa still had tears in her eyes when she finally let go of him, but her jaw was clenched with determination.   "I am not Alayne.  My name is Sansa Stark."   

She turned and pointed a finger at the man who had addressed Robb a moment ago.   "And Lord Baelish threw my Aunt Lysa through the Moon Door.  He murdered her." 

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to look at the man Robb now realized was Littlefinger.

 

* * *

 

Littlefinger was no longer anyone's concern.  The Knights of the Vale punished him the way he deserved: he plummeted to his death through the Moon Door, joining his murdered bride.  Lord Robin, the strange and stunted child who was Robb's cousin, was all too eager to watch the man who killed his mummy "fly."   For their parts, Sansa and Robb had watched the execution in stoic silence while their strange little cousin clapped excitedly. 

Robb spoke at length with Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood, and Lord Corbray, the three who had been the judges of Littlefinger's tribunal.  Robb agreed to take young Lord Robin as his ward, to raise him properly, as Lord Jon Arryn had done for his father.   He knew he had his work cut out for him to turn Lord Robin into a proper man, but he would do his best.   In return, the Knights of the Vale pledged their loyalty to King Robb.   

He was going to need their loyalty.  The north was splintered; the Boltons and the Karstarks, he knew, would never rejoin his cause.  The rest of the northern houses believed him dead.    

He spoke the most, though, with his sister.  Sansa urged him not to linger in the Vale, that it was their home they needed to claim first.  The Lannisters could wait, especially with Joffrey dead, but the King in the North would have to actually rule the north if he were to be taken seriously. 

Sansa had changed, he realized every time he talked to her.  His memories of his innocent, sweet little sister who dreamt of romance and knights was so different than the sharp, coldly angry yet intelligent young woman he knew now.   She told him much about her time at King's Landing, and, much to his relief, about her marriage to Lord Tyrion.  Again the dwarf impressed him.  First it was when he brought plans for a saddle for Bran.  Now, he knows that despite marriage, Lord Tyrion had left his sister's virtue intact.  He was not sure he could call any Lannister an ally, but he did not feel that Lord Tyrion was truly his enemy.  It mattered not; ravens had told the world that Tyrion stood trial for Joffrey's murder, anyway.

 Sansa had told him the entire tale of Joffrey's death, of the way his face turned purple, the way the Kingslayer had charged in to help, all too late.  A one-handed knight could do nothing for a man dying of poison.    

She told him, too, of what she knew of the Tyrells.  They sounded like good and decent people, but Robb suspected they were not.  Why would good and decent people align themselves with the Lannisters, after all their treachery, after Stannis had told the world of the bastards born of incest that wore the name Baratheon?  Still, he was grateful for their kindness to his sister when it sounded as if nearly everyone else in King's Landing had been cruel.   Lady Margaery in particular, Sansa said, had treated her like a friend, wanted her as a sister, and Robb was glad there was something besides pain for his sister in King's Landing. 

What Littlefinger had wanted from Sansa, he did not know, but it did not matter anymore.   

He told her about his life since they'd last met.  Of the wife who died with his child in her womb, of how the Freys had paid back his betrayal with murder, and painfully, how he'd spent the last few months with their mother angry at her for freeing the Kingslayer.   He blamed himself, but Sansa told him not to.  She said the Freys had no business striking in such a cold and dirty way against a king.  She told him it was not his fault, but as fierce and certain as she sounded in her words, he did not feel the same.  He told her of death, how it had taken him and then let him slip through its grasp.  He told her, too, how Arya had been seen alive, though they had no way of finding her.  Sansa had said that Arya was too stubborn to die, and they both vowed that they would find her eventually. 

He did not tarry at the Eyrie, convincing the Brotherhood to ride north with him and the Knights of the Vale.  The element of surprise would be their best gambit, so he and Sansa rode with the nights both hiding their identity.  They could not hide the fact that a vast army of mounted knights was riding north, but they could hide themselves among that army.

They captured Moat Cailin with little resistance from the assembled Bolton forces.  It was the first battle to take back the north, and the Bolton forces stationed there were not expecting a massive force of mounted knights.  Robb fought, but kept his disguise.  It was not time for that reveal, not just yet. 

The next stop was White Harbor, and it was a critical one during the long, slow march northward.  House Manderly had always been loyal to his father, and no word had reached them on whether they had bent the knee to the Boltons.  Their army was not unexpected, and as they approached White Harbor, they found themselves met by cautious Manderly forces, demanding to know why the Vale had sacked Moat Cailin and was marching north. 

Robb, no longer disguised by anything but a cloak, his hair having grown back as well as his beard in the months since what they were now calling the "Red Wedding," guided his horse to trot to the front.  He recognized these men.  They were his men once, when he rode south to save his father.  As he approached, alone, as he had insisted to the others, he removed the hood from his cloak. 

"Our business,"  Robb said as the men, recognizing him instantly, fell to one knee, "is to recapture the North from the usurper who has my home."

"The King in the North,"  they declared in reverence, the shock evident even in their united voices. 

"Take me to your Lord,"  Robb demanded, and the gates of White Harbor opened for all of them.

 


	2. Confinement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery is imprisoned by the Faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to nyx4 for the beta!

Ambition.  If she had a sin, the greatest would be ambition.  Margaery Tyrell knew that now, and yet it wasn’t the sin for which she was being punished.

Not just punished.  Starved.  Beaten.  Made to beg for scraps of hard bread, made to lick the moist floors for water.  Septa Unella did all these things to her and more, while reading the scripture of the Seven Pointed Star.   She felt like she had the bloody book memorized by now; and it made her wish for all the damned gods to stay in their seven hells.  She had never been a particularly religious woman; Margaery’s world was rooted in the earth, like the harvests at the Reach.  But she’d always been respectful of every faith she encountered.  Highgarden had a beautiful sept, as well as a godswood that boasted three weirwood trees.  Both places of worship stood out as the finest of the great houses.  Much of Highgarden stood out in this way.

She longed for Highgarden, for the warmth and the bright colors and the smell of flowers in the air.  Highgarden was laughter and love and beauty all rolled into one, and now, she knows, she should have never have left it behind.

Two husbands she’d had died before the marriage was consummated.  The third husband, Tommen, couldn’t get enough of her, and she played her part.  She acted enchanted.  But the truth of it was, it turned her stomach.  He was barely more than a child, and somehow seemed even younger than his age.   She thinks of Loras when he was Tommen’s age, and Loras had seemed so much more mature.  So much surer of himself.

Still, she’d worn her victory proudly after charming the King’s heart.  Cersei Lannister had never attempted to hold back her pure contempt, and Margaery had indulged herself in a moment of vanity.   Vanity, perhaps that was another sin.   She’d taunted Cersei, even taken up the former queen’s style of dress when she did so.  It was an ugly thing, no matter how hateful and evil Cersei was, and while her time in the Sept’s dungeon had not brought her closer to the faith of the Seven, it had made her confront her own self.   She saw all her flaws now, all her greed.  She wanted to atone for her mistakes, for thinking herself untouchable, for being ambitious enough to get in bed with the cruelest family in the realm, for becoming so confidently reckless that she thought it a good idea to taunt an angry lioness.

Recklessness.  Another sin.

She longed to feel clean, as well.  Part of her hasn’t felt clean since arriving in King’s Landing.  Loras hated it, she knew, as he’d been there before she ever stepped foot in the capital.  “The most horrible place in the world,” he’d called it once.

And yet they’d all done their best to get there, hadn’t they?  First with Renly, then joining the Lannisters.   A foolish move, a part of her had known in her gut, but an emotional one as well.   She’d still wanted to be the queen and Loras wanted revenge.  They knew where Stannis would be next.  She’ll never forget the night of the battle, saying goodbye to Loras and wishing him well, as he wore Renly’s armor.   They had truly been in love, she’d seen it, and she’d wanted to help preserve it.  She’d wanted to give Loras cover to be with the man he loved all the time.  It was fine with her, of course.  She’d never been the romantic sort.

No, she was a pragmatist, one devoted to bettering her family’s place in the world.  There were horrible people everywhere, but Margaery always thought her family the best sort of people.  They gave freely and happily to charity.  They cared for each other, laughed together.  Her father was faithful to her late mother, no bastards to shame them all.  And Highgarden was a free and happy place.  Both she and Loras had grown up to be who they liked.  He wanted to be a knight and favored boys.  She wanted to be a queen and simply wanted to understand the ways of love before committing herself to it.

In those years as a girl when she’d experimented with love, she enjoyed herself, but it never quite seemed to measure up to the more interesting things in life.  She’d read all the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, most closely the various histories of her house. The Tyrells were a clever line, not a vicious one.  And the women of their family were strong, unafraid to express themselves. Grandmother alone was proof of that, but at the Tyrell family dinner table, a woman’s voice held equal weight.   

She’d never truly realized how radical and strange this could seem to others until they came to King’s Landing.  If there was an opposite of Highgarden, it was the capital, most particularly the Red Keep.  Cersei Lannister had never had a reputation for kindness, only beauty, and her son, Joffrey… all the worst rumors about him were true, and more.  But Joffrey was gone and Tommen, as unclean as she felt in dealing with one so young, was like putty in her hands.  If only she could have gotten Cersei out of the way, she’d have turned the capital into a happy place.  One with less cruelty and more mirth.  A place like Highgarden.

But now she sat in the corner of her cell, wearing nothing but sackcloth, shivering as the winds drifting in from the barred window seemed colder every day.  The Starks were right: winter was coming.

“Think of your sins,” Septa Unella said with a swish of her switch against Margaery’s shoulder.   “Do not think of where you are not.”  
  
Margaery looked up and met Unella’s eyes.  She hated the woman, but she sensed the certainty of belief in the Septa.   She used to have that certainty, about her ambition, about her place.  It all felt so completely hers after her wedding to Tommen.  She had won.

She got complacent, and so did Loras.

Complacency, there’s another sin.  If only Septa Unella knew she was actually thinking of her sins.  Not according to the Seven Pointed Star, of course.  She knew the book chapter and verse now, and with each new retelling from the stern Septa, it seemed more filled with contradictions and prejudices.  It disgusted her, as much as it disgusted her to eat bugs she found on the cold stone floor when she was starving.  As much as it disgusted her to marry a man who was little more than a child.   As much as it disgusted her that the Septas and Septons and Sparrows would judge Loras for trying to find some comfort in this world.  

As much as Cersei Lannister disgusted her.

But they had gotten complacent, both of them, and now they both suffered.  She’d heard of Cersei’s walk of atonement, in great detail she was told of it.  Perhaps it was a warning, but she knew it had been real.  She’d heard the speech from the window in her cell.  She’d heard the angry mob begin their terrible roar.

Is that what they meant to do to her?  To parade her naked through the streets of King’s Landing?

No.  

It would not be that way.  Not for her, and not for Loras.

Her mind raced for answers, for solutions and manipulations.  For a way out.   She would not leave without her brother, and when she finally left this dreaded Sept, she would not stay in King’s Landing.  She wanted to be the Queen because she wanted power.  Tommen had proven to her that he had none.

But it was so hard to come up with a strategy when she was starving and thirsty.  When every muscle in her body ached.  When her own stench made her feel ill.

* * *

The plan formed soon after meeting the High Sparrow, and took firmer shape when he allowed her to see Loras.  She’d never seen her brother like this.  He was _broken_ , completely and utterly.  They had beaten and starved her for lying in front of the gods; she feared to know what they’d done to _him_ for his alleged sins.

But she knew she could not let it continue.  It was easy, really, she would ally herself -- and the king -- with the Faith Militant.  She would have to swallow back a lot of loathing, but too much time had passed and help had not come.

It was nearly the day of the big announcement.  Convincing Tommen to join the Faith Militant had been too easy.  Everything with him had been too easy.  They played out their roles, and the High Sparrow was so pleased with the conversion of the King that he allowed her some luxuries.  She got to bathe and eat and drink properly.  Her new cell had a small cot.  Septa Unella no longer beat her.

Once she had the Faith on her side, she would arrange something to get Loras out.  The Tyrells would not be humiliated as Cersei Lannister had been.  Everything was in place.  She would listen to the High Sparrow’s speech, and take Tommen’s hand when he emerged from the Sept, to the glorious applause of the adoring citizens of King’s Landing.

But just days before it was all to be, a Septa who had been caring for her since Septa Unella had moved on to beating and starving someone else, came to her cell and whispered in her ear.

“Ask to speak to the High Sparrow.  Tell him Loras must join you on the steps.  Convince him it is important to see both members of your family atoning.  Offer him a walk of atonement for Loras if you have to.  Just get him out there with you when the time comes.”  
  
Margaery flinched at the words, taking a cautious step back.

The Septa pour some water into a cup, craning her neck for a moment to make sure no one was passing by the cell door, then turned back to Margaery.

“There will be no walk of atonement, but offer it.   You both need to be on those steps.  Be on the steps, and you will be out.  Your father’s army will be waiting to get you both.”  
  
Margaery still eyed the woman warily.  Had Grandmother placed a spy in the Sept of Baelor to get this message to her?  Her doubt must have been evident, because the Septa reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, discreetly tucking it into Margaery’s hand.

Margaery said nothing, staring at the Septa as she set down the bread and cheese that was to be her dinner.  She didn’t take her eyes off the other woman until her cell was empty and stood stock still until she could no longer hear the sound of footsteps.

Only then did she unclench the fist that was holding the small piece of paper.  She unfolded it and tears sprang to her eyes.  It was a rose, just as the way Grandmother had taught her to draw when she was a child.  Start with a small circle in the middle, then add layer after layer until you have the beautiful bloom.  Then draw the stem and add leaves.  Beautiful.

Though, she noticed, Grandmother had added thorns to the stem as well.

* * *

The High Sparrow’s triumph was short-lived.   The Septa who snuck in the message was right.  Here they all were, Highgarden’s army of flowers, led by her father, their gleaming armor and shields and swords ready.  Ser Jaime Lannister himself was astride his horse on the steps, and she could even see Grandmother standing by her litter, fanning herself.

It had taken some convincing, all of her charms really, to convince the High Sparrow to let Loras stand with her.  And even though they both wore the same sackcloth with no shoes, they looked completely different.   Her hands were folded in front of herself, her head held high, a picture of serenity.  Loras was hunched over, his hair shorn, his eyes squeezed shut, as if the harsh light of day was too much for him to endure.  He wrapped his arms around himself protectively, as if waiting at any moment to be struck.  Again Margaery wondered what they’d done to him.

As the crowd cheered for Tommen’s arrival on the steps, she took her husband’s hand.  Her eyes locked with her grandmother. Faintly, she nodded her head.

The moment she saw the horses begin to move, she pushed Loras to a low crouch, covering his body with her own.  This might come to some blows, but she’d be damned to all of the seven hells before she let Loras be harmed again.  They were in the eye of the storm, and she could only hope they would both make it out alive.

The awful din that followed made it hard to know what was what, but she heard Tommen take a fall down some stairs, and then she heard the Kingslayer’s voice as he scooped up Tommen and rode off with her husband on his horse.

She let out a scream when the mace of one of the Sparrow’s weapons struck her on the shoulder, feeling the spikes dig in.  It felt even worse when the spikes were pulled out.  She heard the clash of swords, the neighing of horses, and the screams of death, and all she did was cling to Loras and try to protect him, to shield him with her body, to take any more blows that would come their way.

She could not tell how much time had passed.   Seconds?  Minutes?  Hours?   It felt like forever and too fast all at the same time.  But eventually, a knight tried to pull her up, and she almost tried to struggle away, unwilling to leave Loras, until she looked up and saw the flowers on his breastplate.

She was bleeding badly from the wound to the back of her shoulder, but she stood and helped lift Loras to his feet.  

“Take Loras first,” she commanded, in the most queenly tone she could muster.  It was only a moment later that another Tyrell soldier in full armor rode up to pull her up to his horse.  She wrapped her arms around his steel middle and held on for dear life.   The crowd was screaming, and as they rode she looked behind her.  The High Sparrow was nowhere to be seen, surely spirited away by his followers the moment things went awry.  The chase was on now.  They had to escape the Sparrows and the mob and the whole blasted city of King’s Landing.  

It was just a short trip down the steps before she was pulled into Grandmother’s litter to be carried out of town.  Grandmother and Loras were already inside as she sat opposite them both.  She waved her grandmother off when Olenna saw her shoulder wounds, shushing her.  
  
“The first Maester we find out of town can fix it.  No matter.”

Her eyes were fixed on Loras.  He clung to Grandmother and stared straight ahead, but not at his sister.  His eyes were far away, as if he did not believe any of what was happening.

Holding her injured arm close to herself, she leaned forward and touched Loras’ chin, guiding him to look at her.

“This is not a trick, Loras.   We are leaving.  We’re going home, to Highgarden, where we belong.”

He stared back into her eyes but the good news didn’t seem to register.   He didn’t believe her.  He wouldn’t believe her until they were there, she wagered.

The journey out of the city was loud and bumpy.  There were moments when she thought they would not make it.  One of the litter-bearers stumbled once, and she’d braced herself with hands on the walls.  But they were surrounded by their own knights, half a dozen men thick on both sides, with far more ahead and behind.  Again, she felt like she was in the eye of a storm and her stomach churned somewhat at the turbulent ride out of the city gates.

Once out of the gates, the litter was discarded in favor of a large, comfortable wagon with horses to rush them away much faster.  It was too big for the narrow city streets, but when they all climbed inside, a Maester awaited, and her father joined them.

Margery didn’t flinch as the Maester cleaned and sewed up her wounds.  She was not feeling much pain at the moment, only shock at the violence and terror of this day, and every day since she was taken prisoner by the Faith Militant.  When he was done, she only had one question.

“Will it leave a scar, Maester?”

The old man looked at her with pity.  “I am afraid so, your grace.”  He seemed saddened to tell her that some of her famed beauty would be tainted.

“Good,”  she said in response.  “The scars will remind me what fanatics are capable of.  And I am properly addressed as Lady Margaery, Maester.  I am no longer the queen.”

* * *

Grandmother filled most of the silence on the ride back to the Reach.  It helped to hear her voice, Margaery thought, and she saw it in Loras, too.  His eyes looked ever so slightly less distant, his posture just a tinge straighter.  They rarely stopped, only to swap for fresh horses and stock up on supplies.  Luxuries like bathing and sleeping on a feather bed could wait until they were safely home.   Margaery and her grandmother took turns holding Loras in their arms, offering him comfort.  It would take him some time, she knew.

Grandmother spoke of letting the Faith and Cersei tear each other apart, of being glad to leave this loathsome business behind them.  They’d go home, where they belonged, and Cersei could deal with the loss of everything the Tyrells offered, including the grain that fed the poorest of King’s Landing.

“Cersei Lannister hasn’t even begun to see what an angry mob looks like,” Olenna declared.

Margaery kept quiet, because retribution weighed heavily on her mind.  She might not want to be queen anymore, but she wanted to make those who harmed Loras pay.  She’d marry herself off again if it got her to her goal.   She was always determined to get what she wanted, but now her desire had changed.  She demanded justice now, not power.

By the time they returned to Highgarden she’d taken ill with an infection from her cut, but a few days of balms from the Maester in the castle and plenty of rest had her feeling much better.  No, the fanatics of the Seven would never have her life.  They would not have Loras, either.

When she was finally well enough, she dressed for a walk around her old home.  It felt strange to be back.  There were times when she was not sure if she’d ever see Highgarden again.  Being a prisoner in King’s Landing was a feeling of despair.  The city itself seemed cruel and destructive.  Her mind drifted to Sansa Stark, who was a prisoner for longer.  She’d been fond of the girl, but Sansa had also disappeared.  With any luck, Margaery thought, Sansa was on her way home as well.  Or the closest thing she could find with no family left.  Wherever the girl was, it had to be better than King’s Landing.

She walked without thinking of any place to go in particular, just thinking and enjoying the sweet smell of flowers that always permeated through the air of Highgarden.  She passed her favorite rose gardens, and without realizing she was heading in that direction, realized she was close to the godswood.

It was empty and isolated, as it always was, unless one of the groundskeepers was there to tend to it.  But they did their work in mornings, and it was late afternoon.  A breeze whistled through the weirwood trees and she moved to sit on the ground in front of the heart tree, the largest weirwood of the three, its face looking forlorn in between its neighbors.

Her eyes looked up at the pale bark contrasting with the bright red leaves.  She felt as if she’d never spent more than a few fleeting seconds here before, and now she felt as if she had been missing out on something.

One of her hands reached up to touch the trunk of the tree, and she tilted her head when she felt the smooth bark.  The Old Gods would not have done this to them, she thinks.  The Old Gods did not care who Loras lay with, who Loras loved.  She strained to remember her readings about the faith, but she knew they believed that spirits lived all over nature, especially in these trees.  It was an ancient religion, considered by many southerners to be primitive, even if it was fashionable for most great houses to have a godswood.

She’d never given it much thought, but as she felt a peace descend over her in the godswood, she knew it was not primitive, this faith.  Ancient, but beautiful.  Spiritual, but not religious.

She traced her fingers over the blood sap tears the face on the tree wept.  Its sorrowful face seemed to describe her feelings as of late.  Perpetual melancholy, sorrow for the suffering that never should have happened.

No one would hear her; the godswood was far away from where anyone of the household would linger, and so she spoke aloud as she flattened her palm against the tree again.

“I renounce the Seven.  They labeled my brother wicked, and labeled me so as well for caring enough to defend him.  Their rules and precepts would stop us all from living our lives freely and happily.  Their servants tortured me and my family.  I beseech you, Old Gods, if you yet live, watch over my house.   Grant us the strength for vengeance, and the peace of satisfaction after it is achieved.”

She’d never truly prayed before, so she felt awkward as she couldn’t think of anything else to say.  Surely her proclamation of loyalty would be enough to satisfy the Old Gods.

Enough for the wind to be at her back as she figured out a way to find justice.


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb looks to retake his home.

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had just stayed home?”  Sansa asked while she sipped from a cup of wine.

Robb did not remember Sansa as a wine drinker, but the girl in his mind was still a child.   Sansa had become a young woman, not just because she had grown so much and been wed, but because of the way she spoke, the way she carried herself.  His sister had missed nothing in King’s Landing, though, through all her captivity.  Their enemies had kept her close, and she had absorbed everything, like a sponge.

“I wonder if a lot of things had gone differently,” Robb said, as he took a sip from his own cup of ale. They were guests of the Manderlys at the moment, having sent spies to the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, even as far north as Bear Island and the Last Hearth.  The spies would determine if the lords of their vassal houses were trustworthy enough to tell of Robb’s resurrection and invite to the cause.  Neither of them had complete reports on what was happening in the north, and they both agreed it was best to be prepared.  A messenger was also sent to Castle Black, hoping some information from Jon could give them more reports of the north.

Sansa looked at him and her face was questioning at his remark, though he had spent enough time with her the last few weeks to know that she knew what he meant.  She was being kind, and giving him the opportunity to talk about it.

He looked back at her for a long moment before speaking.  Sansa had always been his little sister, and she was still very young, but she endured so much these last years.  She reminded him so much of Mother.  And Mother always wanted to listen when he had something he needed to get off his chest.

“Talisa,” he says finally, after a long moment of silence.  “I should have listened to Mother, I should have left her alone, I should have married the Frey girl and they’d both still be alive.  Maybe I would have been happy. Uncle Edmure was certainly enthralled with her.  Lord Karstark held it against me, too.”  

He paused, taking a long sip of ale as he looked back at the fireplace.  “Perhaps we’d all be together now if I hadn’t been lonely and stupid.”  He let out a short, sharp, sad laugh.  “But they called me King and I felt so alone, so cold after everything happened.  I didn’t know how to be a king.  And Talisa was warm and kind.  She…”

He paused and looked at Sansa, hesitant to say more.  But his sister reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

“Robb, if anyone knows about stupidly caring for someone, it’s me.  I wanted to marry Joffrey, remember?  Tell me more about her, she was my sister.”

Robb wanted to say that it was different, that Sansa was only a child, that he was a grown man who should have known better.  But he didn’t want to demean her feelings, either.

“I swore an oath, Sansa.  Father would have kept that oath.  Mother reminded me of that, and you know what I told her?  I told her Father wasn’t here.  It was cold, and it was cruel, and I was still angry at her for releasing the Kingslayer.”  He pauses again, taking another sip of ale.  “But if she hadn’t released him, the Karstarks would have killed him.  There were no good choices there.  I should have realized that.  She only wanted to save you, and Arya.”

Sansa shook her head.  “The Kingslayer made it back to King’s Landing with that woman, Brienne of Tarth?   And neither one of them made a move to help me.  Ser Jaime went right back to the Kingsguard, to serve the bastard who killed our father, and did nothing to help me.  Brienne of Tarth bowed to Joffrey at his wedding and wished them well.  Mother might have saved the Kingslayer’s life, she was probably feeling desperate, and I understand that, but it did not set me free.  Cersei was never going to let me out of her grasp unless I escaped.  And I would have been put through the same trial they put Lord Tyrion through if I hadn’t gotten away, and the Kingslayer would have done nothing.”  

Sansa’s words were firm, and he knew she did not mean them as anger at their mother.  They’d held each other and cried over Mother’s death already.  They’d vowed together to make everyone involved pay for it.  Her words were meant to convey that the Lannisters had no honor, and that trusting them with anything was a mistake.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Robb said after a moment.  “You probably are, you know more of the Lannisters than I.  But I wish I hadn’t spent my last months with Mother so angry at her.  It wasn’t right.  She was desperate to save her children, and her advice… I should have listened to her advice.  Maybe we both made mistakes, but it seems unfair that she died, and that she died believing I was gone too.  I wonder if she looks for me in the darkness.”

Sansa moved her hand to squeeze Robb’s in comfort.  “Perhaps she has found Father in the darkness.”  Sansa squeezed his hand again.  “Now tell me more about my sister.  What made you fall in love with her?”

Robb thought about it for a long moment.  He wanted to be honest, with himself, with Sansa.  “She was beautiful,”  he shook his head, knowing how absurd and shallow it sounded compared to the consequences.  But he continued regardless.

“And she was a highborn lady.  It was obvious, even though I found her kneeling in the mud, covered in blood as she tended to the wounded and dying.   She was covered in grime, but I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.  I couldn’t stop looking at her.”  His eyes stay focused on the fire.  “And she only wanted to scold me, to tell me how much damage my war was doing,” he says with a soft laugh.   

“She was from Volantis, in Essos.  A slave city.  She loved her home, she wanted me to visit it with her someday, but she could not bear to live there.  Slavery is barbaric, Father taught us that.  Talisa felt the same.  She was from a noble family, but she cared not about titles or rank.   She saw everyone as equal.  We don’t have slavery here in Westeros, but how many people have you met who would believe everyone was equally deserving of life and happiness?  How many better men and women have bowed to me?  How many better men and women have bowed to the Lannisters?  It’s so easy to think ourselves deserving of titles and wealth and a beautiful castle, better than others, because of our pure blood, because of our names.  I want to believe the way she did, but I don’t kid myself.  I still want to claim the castle I grew up in, I want my home. I still want to bring those who would stop us to heel.”

Sansa looked thoughtful as she digested his words.  “You want it back because it’s home, and so do I.  It’s who we are.  But Talisa was right.”  Her own eyes drifted to the fire.  “I had a handmaiden in King’s Landing, her name was Shae.”  She smiled faintly.  “No one could tell her what to do, really.  I think she felt like I was her little sister, and that she needed to protect me.  She protected me many times.  She was lowborn, from across the Narrow Sea.  She never talked about her past, she never wanted to.  During the Battle of the Blackwater, Cersei wanted to know, but even she never found out Shae’s story.  But she was kind and the sort of person I might have looked down on when I was younger.  Before I realized that kings and knights could be cruel and servants could be the kindest ones of all.  Aside from Queen Margaery, she was the only friend I had.”  She gave Robb a small, sad smile.  “I think I would have liked Talisa.”  

There was a darkness in her eyes at what Sansa said next, something he was surprised to see in his little sister, but he’d seen it many times over the last few weeks.  “And Walder Frey will soon have no worries over whom to marry his children.  He will have no worries about anything.  First we take back our home and punish the Boltons for their treachery.  Then we will make the Freys pay.”

Robb was about to respond when there was a knock on the door.  He called for whoever it was to come in, and it was a servant bearing a letter.  “More news?”  

They’d heard so much since arriving at White Harbor.  Tywin Lannister was dead, killed at the hands of his own son, Tyrion, and he’d fled across the narrow sea.  There was much talk about a Targaryen girl who had become a queen and had three dragons in Essos, though he wasn’t sure if he believed that one.  Stannis Baratheon’s troops had attacked Winterfell and failed.  Rumors swirled about Wildlings south of the wall, allowed through by the Lord Commander: Jon Snow.  It was a lot to take in, and he wasn’t sure what possible news to expect next.  He took the piece of parchment cautiously, dismissing the messenger.

Sansa leaned in to look as he unrolled the parchment, and he moved it a little bit toward her so they could both see and read it together.  About halfway through, he heard Sansa’s surprised sound.  The Tyrells had fled King’s Landing, having been betrayed by the same armed Faith Militant that humiliated Cersei Lannister.  The alliance between the two richest families in Westeros was broken, cutting off the resources from Highgarden to King’s Landing.  There were riots in the streets.  King Tommen had no queen and no way to control the starving mob.  It was all falling apart for Cersei, who was still scheduled to have a trial in the Sept of Baelor, to be tried for her crimes.  Every detail of the Tyrells’ flight was included.

When they finished reading the letter they both took in a deep breath.  He noticed the faintest of smiles coming to Sansa’s face.  Robb tilted his head, giving her a questioning look.  
  
Sansa’s eyes were lit up with realization.  “It was Margaery.  And her grandmother, Lady Olenna.  Cersei empowered the Faith, Lord Manderly told us that, and Cersei never meant for them to hurt her.  Margaery turned King Tommen against his own mother and toward the Faith, while escaping.  She did the right thing.  The Faith and the Lannisters may well destroy each other at this rate.   Lord Tywin is dead, Lord Tyrion is gone, Ser Jaime has one hand and Cersei has lost two of her children to death and one to religion.  They’re falling apart, and now the city will turn against them.”

Robb set down the letter and leaned back in his chair, picking up his ale again.  “Perhaps the gods are punishing them for their wrongs.  Maybe they’re acting through the Faith.”

“No,”  Sansa said, taking a sip of her wine.  “This isn’t the gods, the gods don’t care what happens.  This is the Tyrells striking back.  They asked me about Joffrey, when they first came to King’s Landing.  I told them the truth.  What if they conspired with Littlefinger to kill Joffrey?  He said his ‘friends’ wanted Joffrey dead.  Littlefinger didn’t have any friends.  Only people he used.”

Robb looked at his sister, realizing, that for all the horror she had to endure, his sister had learned a lot about their enemies and the political workings of the world.

“Go on,” he said, sensing she had more to say.

Sansa leaned closer to him, looking him in the eyes.  “The Tyrells have done us a great favor.  Not only have they made things difficult for the Lannisters, but they’ve ensured that they’ll be embroiled in conflict with their own city.  It was Joffrey who named Roose Bolton Warden of the North, but do you think the Lannisters will send a single soldier to support him when we attack?”  

Robb realized where she was going with this. “They’ll too busy putting out fires in their own home to help, even if they wanted to.”  
  
Sansa stared at her brother, looking at him like he must know what she is thinking.  Robb believed he did know.  
  
“We have to ride for Winterfell as soon as we have word back from the banners and the Wall.  They won’t know what hit them, and Roose Bolton won’t expect an attack from an army led by a dead man.”

Sansa’s smile was small, but it hit her eyes.  “Those traitors will think they’re seeing a ghost.”

* * *

More news had come by the time most of the spies returned to White Harbor.  And they did return, every one.  Jon had been murdered, by his own brothers in the Night’s Watch, just after the battle in which Stannis Baratheon fell.  But a Red Priestess, of the same religion as Thoros, had revived him, just as he himself had been revived.  The letter, written in Jon’s own hand, told of how his own brothers has betrayed him for helping the wildlings escape an army of the dead.  The news was chilling, and all the more reason for them to hurry their way to Winterfell, gather all the banners of the North, and strategize on what to do next.

Robb wrote back, sending a raven this time, written in a secret code they invented between themselves as boys.  The first part of the plan was on.  Jon and his wildlings would attack Winterfell from the North.  Robb, the Knights of the Vale, the Manderlys, and the Brotherhood would attack from the South.  Other houses who had answered the call would arrive at the same appointed time.  The Glovers and the Umbers and of course the Karstarks were not trusted by the spies from all they heard while there, but the Mormonts, the Cerwyns, and the Hornwoods had agreed.  

The Boltons would be surrounded.

The ride north was swift, and they only took the last night before the battle to truly rest.  Robb wanted his forces fresh and ready.  Winterfell was a strong keep to defend.  They would have the numbers, but not a castle with turrets and archers.  However, they’d heard the Boltons didn’t bother with a siege in the battle against Stannis Baratheon, and met the Baratheon host in the open field.  If Bolton was foolish enough to do it again, it would be a quick battle.

And a quick battle it was.  It was obvious the Bolton army wasn’t expecting such a massive force.  Robb made it through the gates with Sansa well before Jon and his forces walked through.

“Take down those bloody banners,”  Robb ordered as he looked at the flayed man hanging all over his home.  He’d seen neither Roose nor Ramsay in the field, but they hadn’t thoroughly searched all the corpses yet.

As the Stark banners unfurled, Robb and Sansa dismounted from their horses and embraced.  The day was won, and easily so.  They’d faced the combined forces of the Boltons, Karstarks, and the Umbers.  The spies had turned out to be proven right.  But when many of them saw Robb, slashing his sword on the field, recognizing their former king, they either lay down their arms in terror or changed sides and fought on his behalf.  He would deal with the betraying houses once they were settled in the castle, but he vowed to pardon any soldiers who changed their minds.  He would not be a tyrant.

Sansa walked over to a post in the castle courtyard.  It held up part of the kennels, but on it were notches carved on one edge, with initials next to each one.  It was where their parents would measure their height on their namedays each year.  She ran a gloved finger over her most recent notch, from years ago before she left for King’s Landing, and Robb marveled at how small she was back then, by how much she’d grown.  He was about to comment on it when he heard a commotion, and the pounding, thundering sound of something huge walking.

He turned around with Sansa and the first thing he saw was a giant, his eyes widening.  It should not surprise him.  The world was full of magic these days.  He couldn’t think of another word to describe both he and his brother returning from death.

His staring in awe at the giant was interrupted by a gasping cry from Sansa.  He turned to look at her, seeing her eyes well up and her hands clasped against her mouth.   Following her gaze, he felt an ache in his heart.  There was Jon.  And the Red Priestess he assumed had brought him back from the dead.  But on a cart was a body.  A child.  

Rickon looked so different that it took Robb several seconds to recognize him.  He remembered a little six year old boy, crying for Mother every night when she sat with Bran during his constant sleep.  He remembered comforting the small boy and telling him stories about the First Men to distract him.  He could hardly believe this was the same small child he remembered.  Would the gods ever let his family have a victory without grief?  

Robb walked toward the cart and lowered himself down to one knee, feeling his eyes stinging, though no tears fell.  He heard Sansa crying behind him softly.  They’d gone from a moment of triumph to utter tragedy.  His eyes met Jon’s for a moment, but then immediately turned to the Red Priestess.

“Bring him back,” Robb commanded as he rose to his feet.  “Bring him back like I was brought back, like you brought Jon back.”

The Red Woman exchanged glances with Jon before looking back at Robb.  “I have tried, your grace.  I cannot.”

“Bring him _back!_ ” Robb yelled, the sound echoing through the courtyard.  Jon’s wolf Ghost howled, as if in agreement.

“Robb,”  Jon said softly, touching his brother’s arm.

“It does not work in this way, your grace.  This magic… the Lord of Light does not inflict it upon children.  I did not even know it was possible, I’d only read of it, but there is a price, and the Lord does not make children pay.  He takes them into his arms,” the priestess tried to explain.  Her eyes locked with Robb’s.  “You know the price, your grace.  You feel it every moment of every day, as does your brother.”

Robb wanted to speak against it, but he could not deny it. He just stared, jaw clenched.

“Robb, she tried,” Jon said, taking his brother by the shoulders and making Robb face him. “I made her try, the moment the battle was over and I found her, I made her try, and try, and try again.  We would have beaten you to Winterfell if not for all the trying.  He’s gone, Robb.  The Umbers gave him to the Boltons to show their loyalty.  That’s where he was hiding.”

Sansa had stopped crying, and when she spoke, Robb turned to look at her.  On her face was the same pained resignation he’d seen on Mother’s face too many times since the war began.

“And what of Bran?” she asked Jon.  “Or Arya?  Do you know where they are?”  There was a weariness in her voice, and Robb felt fatigue envelop him, too, as he looked back at Jon.

“Bran is somewhere… beyond the Wall.  He’s with friends, one of my brothers at the Wall saw him.  They refused to stay.  They said he had visions, that he had to find a prophet called the Three-Eyed Raven.  It all sounds like madness, I know, and the things I’ve seen north of the Wall--”  he paused, “I haven’t heard anything about Arya.”

Robb’s eyes again looked at the giant, then back at his brother.  They could go over all this later.  He moved to embrace his brother, and Sansa joined them a moment after.  They took a moment as a family to hold each other in grief.  All of the details of everything else could be discussed later.

Robb looked around him, his face and armor still splattered with blood from the battle.  He noticed Jon gesture behind him, to bring another corpse on a wagon before Robb.

“Ramsay Bolton. King Tommen legitimized him, I suppose,” Jon said.  "A raven notified Castle Black of it. Apparently Roose was dead before the battle, so the soldiers say, as well as Lord Bolton’s wife Walda.  All of House Bolton is dead.”

Robb thought for a moment, then climbed up to the nearest balcony, addressing all the soldiers assembled.  Every moment the castle courtyard grew thicker with soldiers returning.

He looked out at the crowd, which gazed up at him, waiting for him to speak.

“All of you who stood with us this day are reminders of who we are!  We are the North, and we remember!” A cheer whooped up from the crowd.  “But the war is not over.  The army of the dead comes with winter, my own brother has told me this.”  He looked down at Jon.  “My brother, Jon Stark!”  

A surprised sound went through the crowd.  Much to his surprise, he saw a small smile on Sansa’s lips.  Jon, for his part, looked stunned.  “I, Robb Stark, King in the North do hereby legitimize my brother as a trueborn Stark.  The blood of the First Men runs through him, as it does for us all!”

Another cheer erupted, and Jon smiled as Sansa gave him a hug.  Robb noticed it, and it warmed him to see it.  He remembered a time when Sansa and Jon were not close.  But now, they all realized how much they had taken each other for granted before.

“We have our homes back, but many of our enemies live.  Every traitor of the north will be dealt with.  They will bend the knee or they will die.  Only if we are truly united can we withstand the coming storm.  Winter is coming.”  
  
“Aye!” cried out many from the crowd.

“But first,” Robb said, trying to keep the emotion from sounding too thick in his voice, “we will bury and mourn our dead.”  His eyes moved back to Rickon, lying cold on the slab of wood on the wagon, looking smaller from up here than he did on the ground.

He noticed the way people looked at him.  He was their King, thought to be dead, and he wondered how many of them knew he actually did die.  He could hardly have believed it himself.  Perhaps this Lord of Light was real.  Perhaps it was something else.  But it wasn’t enough.  Not to help Rickon, or his mother, or his wife.

His speech was rousing as it was supposed to be, but he took no satisfaction in it.  He heard the soldiers chant “the King in the North!” over and over again as he walked off, taking the steps down to rejoin his family. The crypts awaited Rickon.  It was time they lay him to rest.

* * *

Days later, the northern lords were still gathered at Winterfell.  He would have to address them soon, to make a plan against the coming storm.  Jon and his friends, Ser Davos and a wildling named Tormund Giantsbane, told him of all that had transpired beyond the wall.  Ser Davos also made a stunning accusation against the Lady Melisandre, the Red Priestess, and she did not deny it.  He should have executed her, perhaps, but the woman had brought his brother back to life.  If his first act as King of the North in Winterfell was making Jon a true Stark, his second was banishing the priestess to the south.  It made his head ache to make such a decision when a child was involved, especially after what happened to Rickon, but this woman swore she wanted to fight for good and had saved one of the few family members he had left.

And a white raven had arrived from the Citadel.  Winter was here.  Just as Father always promised.

The comforts of home had done much to restore his strength after the battle, after years of traveling in war camps, but it also reminded him how empty it was.  No chattering from Bran and Rickon, no advice from Mother and Father.  Winterfell was his now, and he did not even have a wife to confide in.  It felt strange to sleep alone in the massive Lord’s chamber.  Would he ever have such a feeling for another woman again, he wondered?  He had loved Talisa, he had loved the child he never got to hold.  Such love was lucky to happen once in a lifetime.  He doubted it would happen twice.

But he would go on.  He would not feel sorry for himself.  He would take care of his brother and sister, take care of the North, and do his best to fight the coming threat.  The Freys could wait, and King’s Landing sounded ready to tear itself apart after the Tyrells fled.  First, they had to protect themselves from whatever winter was going to bring with it.  Jon had told him what he saw at Hardhome.  He had no idea how to protect the north from something like that.  But he did begin by ordering two thousand soldiers, enough to man every castle at the Wall.  It was not a permanent appointment, these men were not to take the black, but it was necessary to keep their eye on the threat, to sound the alarm when the time came.  A volunteer tracking party of loyal men vowed to go north of the wall and search for Bran.  It was likely a suicide mission, and he told them they were under no obligation to go, but they went.  They were not from noble houses, just loyal soldiers, but as he and Sansa had discussed: lowborn, highborn, whatever people were, it was character and decency that mattered most.

He walked out to the godswood, wearing a heavy black cloak, a fur, and gloves to stave off the cold as light snowflakes fell.  Father would go here, he remembered, when he was mulling over difficult decisions.  Only Mother would dare interrupt when Father was here alone.

He took a seat on the large flat rock that was there to sit on to pray, and looked toward the carved face in the tree.  He placed a hand on the smooth bark.

And he immediately jumped to his feet when suddenly, he saw a young woman appear before him, kneeling before the tree.

“What in the name of the gods!?” he exclaimed, looking her over.  She was young, and beautiful, and her dress was short of sleeve, with a neckline that plunged low.  She must have been freezing, and somehow, not a flake had fallen upon her.   

“Who are you?”  he asked in shock, wondering how a whole person could have snuck up on him silently.  He was seasoned in battle, how did this young woman manage to surprise him?

She gasped and rose to her feet and stared at him with wide eyes as she looked him up and down.  “Who am I?  Who are _you_?  This is my home, my godswood, and I was praying!”

 _“Your_ godswood?” he exclaimed with a laugh.   _“Your_ home?  Just where do you think you are?”

“My _home!”_ she said indignantly, the shock in her voice turning to righteous anger as she straightened her shawl.  “Highgarden!”


	4. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange connection suggests the Old Gods are not done with Westeros.

“Highgarden?” The man asked with a derisive laugh.  “Are you mad?”

“Am I mad?  This is my--” Her voice suddenly cut off as she noticed the flakes of snow falling on the man.  She turned her head upward, seeing nothing but a peaceful, sunny, if somewhat cloudy day.  She looked back at the man and noticed his heavy cloak, his gloves, boots fit for trudging through the snow.

She was quite certain she was not going mad, but she also did not understand what was happening.  She took a step closer to him and lifted up her hand, showing him her palm, then looked him in the eyes.

He lifted his own hand, palm flat, to press against hers.  She let out a gasp of shock when his hand passed right through hers, as if he had no substance.  Once upon a time, she’d have never believed such a trick.  But she had heard things lately, strange things.  The Spider had come to Westeros on behalf of a queen with grown dragons.  

The world was changing.

They both spent a moment in shocked silence before she finally spoke.  She looked over his clothes, the wolf clasps on his cloak, and the snow falling on his head and shoulders.

“You’re in the north,”  she said.  “Are you Jon Snow?  I noticed the wolf.  And the black clothes.”  She gestured toward her collarbone, around where the clasps met on his cloak.

He blinked.  “Jon Snow, no, that is my brother.  And he is Jon Stark now.  I am Robb Stark.  I have legitimized him.  And I am at Winterfell.”

Margaery took a step back, and the question she felt too foolish to ask earlier comes out.  “Are you a spirit?  Robb Stark is-”

“Not as dead as people say,”  he said with a small smile.  She noticed his eyes looking at her dress, no doubt taking note of the embroidered roses.  “Highgarden.  Are you, by chance, the Lady Margaery Tyrell?  My sister told me of you.”  He paused, looking her straight in the eyes.  “Thank you for being kind to her in King’s Landing.”

Margaery’s face softened when Robb thanked her for her kindness, finding it telling that he chose to thank her before delving into the oddity of what was happening.  He was courteous. He loved his sister as she loved her brother.

“You’re in Winterfell?” She asked in surprise.  “So this means you have defeated the Boltons.  I am… sorry about what happened to your family at the Twins.”  

It felt so strange, making small talk, introductions and apologies and thank-yous and all the niceties of a civilized, normal conversation, when both of them knew that this was most certainly not normal.  She wondered if someone else would be able to see him if they walked into the godswood, or if the connection was solely between them.   Was it the Old Gods responding to her prayers?  She had visited the godswood every day since renouncing the Seven, and her prayers were more like meditations.  Something about the sacred trees cleared her thoughts.   She brought Loras with her on some days, holding his hand and urging him to focus on the scent of the trees and the sound of the birds and colors of the leaves.  It seemed to help him; he even told her that he wondered why he’d never visited before.  They were raised in the light of the Seven, it was the southron way.  They’d both enjoyed the feast days and the festivals.  They dressed in costumes on the Feast Day of the Stranger, played at archery on the Feast Day of the Warrior, and never really thought overmuch about the scriptures and their rules.  But Loras, like her, now recoiled at the sight of a seven pointed star.  

For them, the Seven only represented cruelty and torment.  She’d ordered all ornamentation of the Seven taken down at Highgarden.  She remembered hearing of how Stannis had his priestess burn statues of the Seven and Dragonstone, and despite her loathing for the man who was responsible for Renly’s death, part of her felt that watching the false idols burn must have been satisfying.

King Robb interrupted her thoughts.  “Yes, the Boltons have been defeated.  My brother and sister and I are home again.  Another brother and sister are missing.  A more serious threat is coming, more serious than the Lannisters, who I suppose we know share as a common enemy, Lady Margaery.”

“The Lannisters are vicious and hateful.”  She folded her arms and realized the news has probably not reached Winterfell yet.  The Reach was much closer to King’s Landing than Winterfell.  “Cersei Lannister was to stand trial in the Sept of Baelor.  Instead she destroyed it.  With wildfire.  Thousands died.  The High Sparrow and his disgusting fanatics are dead, too, but Cersei is insane.”

Margaery took a deep breath before speaking again, for the next bit of news made her feel sad.  And guilty.  Feelings that were complicated and for which she did believe she needed to atone.  Perhaps this strange, magical, instant connection with the northern King was the opportunity the Old Gods were giving her to redeem herself, to help the world heal from all this ugliness.  “King Tommen threw himself out a window when he saw the explosion.”  Margaery swallowed hard.  “Cersei has named herself Queen.”

Margaery watched as King Robb’s eyes widened in shock.  Thousands of innocent people slaughtered, she knew, was a lot to take in.  This was worse than the stories of the Mad King.

“That’s… horrible,”  Robb said, as the weight of her words seemed to sink in.  But his eyes betrayed something far more grim. “It’s not the worst thing in the world right now, I’m afraid to say, my Lady.”

Margaery listened with growing horror as Robb told her of what was happening north of the wall.  Perhaps on a normal day, she would never have believed him.   If they were having this conversation over dinner in the great hall of Highgarden, she would think it was foolishness.  But everything had changed these last few days, and this was no normal day.  She was talking to a man who was thousands of miles away.  She could look at him and see every detail of him.

Brienne of Tarth had told her about magic she’d seen.  A shadow in the shape of Stannis Baratheon who she swore had murdered Renly.  But real magic-- this was something Margaery had never encountered firsthand.  She’d never seen it with her own eyes, and as Robb described the White Walkers and the army of the dead, she took a seat on the small bench next to the heart tree, needing to rest to take it all in.

When she did take her seat, Robb stopped and couldn’t help but let out a laugh.  “Apologies, my lady, but it looks like you’re sitting on nothing.”

Margaery couldn’t help but smile.  “And do you have nowhere to sit as well in your godswood, your grace?”

Robb smiled and took his seat, and she let out a giggle.  It felt strange to laugh after they spoke of so much horror, but this was real, _true_ magic, something she’d stopped dreaming of when she was old enough to read a book, and it was so peculiar and delightful that she couldn’t help but laugh.

Robb laughed, too, and she noticed his eyes locked with hers.  Her laughter stilled and she gave him a smile for a moment, then blinked, her face settling.

“I never used to visit this godswood, but something has called me here every day for weeks.  King’s Landing was so… suffocating.  It’s peaceful here.   We have three weirwood trees, and flowers are everywhere else.  The birds are always singing, sweetly, softly.   It’s bright and sunny and warm.  But not too bright.  The leaves shield the sunlight from being too harsh, the rays sort of shine down like a spray of rain.”

She watched him as he listened, and notice the interested look in his face as she described her godswood.  Perhaps they should be talking about something else, something of greater import, but she was curious to know what it looked like where he was, too.  And he obliged without being asked.

“We only have one weirwood, but it’s very large.  Its leaves would give us shelter if there were any sunshine to be found.  There’s a small pond next to it, but it’s frozen over right now. And snowing.”  He brushed some of the flakes off his shoulder. “And I’m sitting on a big rock, it’s a bit flat.  Good for sitting while praying or fishing from the pond.  My father used to polish our family’s Valyrian sword Ice here.  I think he believed the Gods blessed his blade to be true if he polished it here.”

Margaery frowned, for she knows what happened to that sword.  Tommen told her the story once, for he had inherited Widow’s Wail, one of the two swords forged from the steel of Ice.  But she would tell him another day.  When it was time to take it back from King’s Landing.

This was surely a sign.  Lord Varys had summoned Grandmother to Dorne weeks ago, soon after they fled the capital.  They had a proposal that both she and Grandmother agreed was worth considering.  It was a quick and quiet trip, and Grandmother had returned to Highgarden immediately to discuss the plan.  Her mind raced as she thought about what to say, and whether she should say something to a northern king she barely knew.  But magic didn’t happen every day, and she had no idea if she would have another chance to speak with him so easily, and so privately.

“You said the Army of the Dead can only be stopped by fire?  Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons.  Lord Varys and the Martells summoned my grandmother to Dorne not long ago.  They proposed an alliance against the Lannisters.”  Margaery leaned closer to his image, staring into his eyes.  “She has three dragons, your grace.  Capable of making a lot of fire.  She means to take back the Iron Throne.  And we all now share common enemies, your grace.  Our fleet will be joining Queen Daenerys’ soon.  She comes across the narrow sea with over a hundred thousand troops and her dragons.  You should join us.  We should all join each other, if what you say of the White Walkers is true.”

Robb looked fascinated as she spoke, and Margaery thought that she liked him already.  He did not dismiss her opinion the way some men would have.  He recognized the moment for what it was, she could tell: an opportunity.   He appeared to contemplate her words for a moment before speaking.

“The Vale is with us as well.  And I have heard reports from the Riverlands that the Blackfish has taken back Riverrun.”

Margaery shook her head.  “No.  The Lannisters took it back, along with the Freys.  But Walder Frey is dead.”  Her voice lowers almost to a whisper.  “Someone murdered him, the rumor is that the killer fed him his sons in a pie and then slit his throat.”

She wasn’t prepared for Robb’s reaction to the news, though she realizes in an instant she should have been.  He looked shaken and yet somewhat relieved at the revelation.  She is sure he wanted to be the one to do the deed when it came to Walder Frey, just as Loras had wished he’d had the opportunity to end Stannis.  But they all knew the legend of what happened to those who killed guests in their own home.  Someone had delivered Walder Frey the sweetest possible justice.

“I’m sorry, your grace,” Margaery said softly as she forgot for a moment that she couldn’t touch him, reaching to touch his arm to comfort him.  She couldn’t imagine the ghastly horror that was the Red Wedding, and she was curious how he managed to survive.  But he had a wife, and a mother, and countless friends and allies die before him.  “May I ask…”

“How I’m alive?” he asked as she noticed him look down to see her hand hovering over his arm.  He lifted his arm and placed his hand under hers.  Neither of them felt the comfort of touch, but she was glad he appreciated the gesture.  She watched him carefully, his eyes looking sad, something in those blue depths making him look older than she knew he was.  

“I did die,” he said after a moment of silence.  “Some foreign priest brought me back.  It happened to my brother Jon, too, but it was a priestess this time, of the same foreign religion.”

Robb looked up, she assumed to his own heart tree.  “The Old Gods are allowing us to speak.  The Lord of Light brought my brother and I back from the dead, so they say.  Perhaps all the gods of our world are awakening along with the magic.”

Margaery’s eyes narrowed.  “Not the Seven.  They are false.  They offer nothing.”

“They kept you prisoner,” Robb said.  It wasn’t a question.

“I will not complain of it, your grace, not after everything your family has been through.”  She could say many things about her time with the Faith, make many complaints, but she barely knew this man, and it was true that at least her family yet lived.

But Robb shook his head.   “Sansa told me about her time in captivity.  I heard what the Faith did to Cersei Lannister.  I want her dead for what her family has done, but to shame a woman in the streets in such a way?  It is not honorable.  Whatever they did to you, I am certain it was also not honorable.  Servants of gods should not be violent.”

Margaery smiled softly.  “It is said your father was one of the most honorable men in Westeros.  You must take after him.”

Robb shook his head.  “Were I an honorable man, there never would have been a Red Wedding.  I chose love over duty.  It was selfish.”

Margaery’s mind drifted to Loras and his love for Renly.  She knew because of them that romantic love was real.  Familial love, of course, was true.  But romantic love was something she had never felt.  She had known pleasure and boredom and disgust in bed with others, but love?  She didn’t know what that felt like.  But she’d seen Loras’ grief.  She’d seen Loras’ devotion.  He might have broken an oath or two to be with Renly.  He broke all the social norms that spoke against it, even in a place as dangerous as the capital.  

No, she could not call Robb Stark dishonorable for choosing love.  Perhaps it was unwise.  But there was truth to it.  A truth she had only ever observed from the outside.

“I have never felt love like that,” she confessed, surprised by her admission.  “Three husbands,” she said with a wry laugh.  “Three husbands and I did not love a single one.   Renly was more like a brother.  Joffrey was… I am certain your sister has told you enough that I do not need to explain.  And Tommen was barely a man.”  She gave him a sad smile.  “So you see, your grace, everything can fall apart even if you have done your duty.  Three times over, in my case.”

He studied her for a moment, and she felt like she was being inspected while he was quiet.  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said finally.

She gave him a curious look.  “And what is that?”

“You’re wondering why you’re talking about these things with a complete stranger.”

Margaery laughed.  “Maybe it’s because I’m not sure you’re real.”  She smiled as he laughed, too.  “Or maybe it’s because you’ve essentially told me the world is ending and yet you still made me laugh.”

“Well, it’s not going to end today,” he said with a smile before growing a bit more serious.  “We may not have another chance to talk like this, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.  We should probably strategize as much as possible.”

“Of course, King Robb,” she said, sitting up straight.  “Let us work together to save ourselves from certain death.”  There was still a smirk on her lips, and she found herself looking at him intently.  He was handsome, and brave, and honorable.  It was a refreshing change after her time in King’s Landing to meet someone new who wasn’t utterly despicable.

* * *

They spoke for hours that first day.  Plans were made.  Robb was to go south with the Knights of the Vale and the Brotherhood, leaving Jon, Sansa, and the Northern armies to protect against a possible breach of the Wall.  They agreed on a target, one that Queen Daenerys had already planned to take: Casterly Rock. The Targaryen was to send her Unsullied Army to attack the Rock from the shore while Robb’s forces attacked from land, while the Queen herself was set to take back her ancestral home of Dragonstone, with the rest of her troops.  The Tyrell ships were set to join the Unsullied ships at the port in the Shield Islands.  From there, the journey to Casterly Rock was quick.

They were able to speak again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.  Every day they met and spoke in their godswoods, and every day she learned more of this King in the North.  Through Margaery Robb offered his terms with the Dragon Queen: the same arrangement he would have had with Renly.  He had no interest in the Iron Throne, and Margaery, for the first time in her life, understood that impulse.

Robb had told her that he would bend the knee to Daenerys, as long as he kept the title of “King in the North.”  In one of his frequent candid moments he admitted to her that he had never wished to be a king, but that it was important to the northern lords.  It had united them in a way he had never seen in his lifetime.  Even what remained of House Umber and House Karstark had come to beg forgiveness.  Robb had allowed them amnesty, but they would have to agree to help the wildlings settle lands south of the Wall.  

From everything Lord Varys had said of Queen Daenerys, Margaery believed these terms would be acceptable.  It was just a matter of time to make it official.  Robb had already joined her cause.

* * *

“Stop calling me your grace,” Robb blurted out.  “I have been wanting to say it for days.  We are friends, are we not?”

“We are,” she confirmed, smiling at him. “But only if you’ll simply call me Margaery.”

It was true, they _were_ friends.  It was strange.  She was so accustomed to acting a certain way with men outside of her family, especially with men who were called kings.  She wasn’t trying to seduce him or charm him.  She put on no airs, she was simply Margaery.  After three husband kings she had to make great efforts to seduce, it was refreshing.  Ambition was the sin she chose to let go of first.  It vanished the day she fled King’s Landing.  

And with the terrifying news from the north, complacency, too, was no longer one of her vices.  She liked to think she was done with recklessness, as well.  It wasn’t as if she didn’t keep her wits about her when talking to the King in the North, but she trusted him in a strange sort of way.  She could tell he felt the same.  Sometimes their conversations drifted away from them.  They’d speak of something completely frivolous, or something intimately personal in between discussing the matters of the world.  There was something that felt safe about the communication.  No one else could see what they saw; they’d tried it on both sides.  Whatever had caused this link between them in their godswoods, it was uniquely between them.

When it got to be the last day before Robb had to begin his travel south, Margaery found herself disappointed to realize he would be leaving his godswood behind and with it their private talks.  It was like sharing an exciting secret with someone to talk to him in this magical way.  She’d never imagined she’d be using some kind of magic.  Grandmother taught her that charms, wits, and knowledge would take her much further.

They said their goodbyes and she knew she wasn’t imagining it when she heard the hesitation in his voice, and saw it on his face.  He didn’t want to let go of this connection any more than she did.  They’d lived their lives in the tumult of the rest of the world for years now, living through war and terror and fear and grief.  But their private talks in the godswood were peaceful, quiet, and something the rest of the world could never see or feel or touch.

Robb’s journey to Casterly Rock for the attack would take longer than it would to attack by sea from Highgarden.  There was much debate about how it was to be done from the Tyrell side of things.  The Dragon Queen sent ships of her own, as did House Martell, but the Tyrell fleet was in need of a leader.

Grandmother persuaded her to take control of the Tyrell forces.  Under normal circumstances, this responsibility would easily and naturally fall to Loras, but he was still withdrawn, despondent at times.  He needed to recover from the torment the Faith had inflicted upon him.  Her anger at the Seven and their vicious followers grew every time she looked at the lost look in her brother’s eyes.

Her father, of course, would be the next natural choice to lead the fleet, but Grandmother wouldn’t hear of it.  “I won’t turn over the future of our house to a singing fool,” she had told Margaery tartly.

“No,” Grandmother had said.  “You must go.  You are the only one I trust, the only one strong enough, and this King in the North is already your friend.  The two of you have discussed the strategy for weeks, no one knows the plan better than you, my dear.”

And Margaery was surprised at how little convincing it took.  What Grandmother said was true, yes, and there were other good reasons she could come up with: the fact that they would be meeting with Queen Daenerys’ envoy, someone who would respect a house that allowed a woman to lead them into battle.  She also knew they could send Randyll Tarly, or any of the other great house leaders from the Reach, but she and Grandmother both wanted the Tyrells to represent themselves.  

But she also had no desire to leave Highgarden, no ambition to conquer lands or rule the world any longer.  The High Sparrow had asked her what she wanted, what she would do if she could leave the Sept, and she’d told him the truth: she’d go to her family.  Family meant home, and home meant Highgarden.  After so long away she had wept to see its ivy covered walls, its endless gardens, the sweet smell of roses always in the air.  She had sworn she would not leave the Reach again, a private swearing she made to herself, but an important one regardless.

And yet, when Grandmother told her to go, she agreed without hesitation.  Not because of all the good reasons she or Grandmother or anyone could conjure up for her to join the fleet.  No, there was only reason she was so eager to say yes, and she could barely admit it to herself, let alone give it voice and admit it to Grandmother, as well.

She wanted to meet her friend Robb, to see him in person.  To reach out for his hand and feel warm flesh.

The day she boarded the flagship of the Tyrell fleet, she wore the colors of her house, a cloak of green with a gold clasp.  She’d spent the better part of the night studying naval commands, and when she gave the call for the fleet to proceed, there was strength and confidence in her voice.

She may have given up the title of queen, but for now, she was the admiral of a navy.  


	5. Congress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle for Casterly Rock.

It had taken her a couple of days to get her sea legs, but she had also anticipated this problem and asked the Maester at Highgarden for just the right remedies.  If she was to command the navy over her house, she must appear composed.

And composed she was.  She was not a seasoned naval commander, of course, but she was surrounded by the most trusted naval advisers of her house.  They were good honest men, hand-selected by Grandmother for their loyalty, whose houses had close ties to the Tyrells going back generations.  They had their plan, and she considered their advice at every turn before making her decisions.

They were to give the signal to the troops on the ground, the fleets of the Tyrells, Dorne and the Targaryens.  Once fire rained down on Casterly Rock from above, she assumed it would be a quick battle.

No, the fire was not one of the Queen’s famed dragons, but the skills of archers both Westerosi and Dothraki.  Once the flaming arrows and catapults began from the sea, the Targaryen fleet would rush the shore at Lannisport, Unsullied and Dothraki alike ferociously making their way to the ultimate target.  Robb, the Brotherhood, and the Knights of the Vale would assault at the first sight of fire from the east hills.  The defenses that protected the Rock were completely surrounded on every side.  They would be overwhelmed.

Or so she prayed to the Old Gods.  She’d never witnessed battle firsthand and as she shouted the commands as planned, she felt her heart pound in her chest.  She felt adrenaline rush through her blood.  It was a feeling like that day when she covered Loras with her own body on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.  Battle was frightening, but invigorating, if one’s cause was true.  If one’s goals were pure.

Margaery could not think of a purer goal than the one for which she fought: justice.

* * *

A dragon or two would have been nice, he’d pled, even saying that in his fine opinion as the Hand of the Queen, he felt it the prudent course of action.  But Daenerys had said no, that dragons were to be saved for bigger battles, and with Robb Stark and the Vale joining the fight, Casterly Rock would be ripe for the picking.

His own home, ripe for the picking.  It was a gift, Queen Daenerys had said, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to sleep in his father’s bed, even if it was so easily conquered as his queen had anticipated.

Easy victory or not, war was still a bloody business.  Men on every side would die.  His home would be stained with blood before the end of the day.  Tyrion Lannister had seen enough war in his life to wish never to see it again, but a man does not choose the times in which he lives any more than he chooses to be a dwarf.

Everything did go as planned, the Queen was right about that much.  She had been wise in choosing her new friends, or, as Tyrion liked to think to himself, she had been wise in listening to his and Varys’ advice in choosing friends.  Not that he felt himself particularly clever in his selection of allies: the Martells, the Tyrells, the Starks, all had deep and personal reasons to hate his sister. Cersei was good at a great many things, but making enemies was her specialty.

It was warm at the Rock that day, unseasonably warm since winter had begun.  He’d ditched his cloak when he led the Targaryen fleet into battle.  He’d seen Ellaria Sand in sleeveless armor as she led the Martell ships.  And the sight of Casterly Rock, _home,_ in the bright and sunny weather tugged at his heart unexepectedly.

But the bloody battle left a wet, crimson trail through Lannisport and all the way up to the lane he used to take for walks as a child.  When he made his way with Unsullied by his side into the great hall of Casterly Rock, he realized he was not the first one there.

It took his breath for a moment, because he’d known what had been done at the Red Wedding, and he’d had his doubts, but it was really and truly Robb Stark.  He wasn’t the boy Tyrion remembered at Winterfell, fresh faced and clean shaven for the royal dinner.  He wasn’t even the young bearded man who scowled at him when Tyrion brought plans for Bran’s saddle.  No, there was a weariness in his eyes, and while no new lines marked his face, there was something intangible Tyrion could detect that made Robb seem older.  Like more of a man and less of a boy, and not just because of the years that had passed.

“The King in the North lives!” Tyrion called out, and he expected the surprised expression on Robb’s face.  Tyrion bowed, and gestured to the silver pin on his chest.  “I am the Hand of the Queen.  I am the envoy sent to help with this battle.  No one from our side of things knows Casterly Rock as I do.  Now, where’s the bloody wine?  Did they abscond with it before fleeing, the cruel monsters?”

* * *

Robb realized when he stood in the Great Hall that he’d had no real expectations of Casterly Rock, what it would look like, what it would feel like.  But, he decided, he didn’t expect it to be like this.  Bright and sunny, almost a mountain but not quite, but dull and dusty in color.  

Oh, to be sure, it was the castle of a wealthy family.  The most wealthy family in Westeros, to be sure.  But it lacked the dark mystery of Winterfell or the lush vitality of Riverrun.  And the damned golden lions were everywhere.  He hated the sight of them as much as Margaery hated the sight of the seven-pointed star.

Margaery was never away from his mind throughout the course of the battle; he'd hoped he could talk to her from the Casterly Rock godswood.  They’d spent several weeks talking and planning before he left Winterfell.  It had now been several weeks since he’d had that chance, to hear her voice or see her smile.

Margaery Tyrell, he realized, was someone he did not expect to miss so very much until she was not there every day.  He’d taken her wit, her charm, her sympathy, her cleverness, her determination, and yes, her beauty for granted.  

Years had passed since the horrors of the Red Wedding, and he’d given himself the time the time to grieve his wife and child.  But the truth was, he was lonely.  He hadn't realized how much until he had to part with Margaery.  He’d gotten used to life as a married man when it was all taken away from him, gotten used to the companionship of a woman in such a way.  His feelings for Margaery had been somehow restrained every time they spoke, even if they had been open and honest in their affection and appreciation for their conversations.  But the rest was unspoken.  They were both widowed, both wounded.  They both had more important things to concern themselves with than love.  It wasn’t just the battle plans and their desire for justice.  It was exorcising the pains of the last years, confiding in each other of the agonies and fears they’d endured.  Like cutting away the infection before daring to move on.

But as he rode southwest to Casterly Rock, he knew in his heart that what he felt for Margaery was beyond friendship.  It was so very different, though, from how he’d loved Talisa.  Talisa was infatuation and comfort and distraction.  Talisa was wholly separate from Westeros and the damned War of Five Kings, she cared not for any of it, and at the time, he felt like he agreed.  He was heir to Winterfell, he was doing his duty, he was going to save his sisters and his father, but he thought himself apart from it in a way that drew himself to Talisa.

With Margaery, it was the opposite.  They were both mired in the politics and battles of Westeros, whether they chose it or not.  They both felt the need to seek out justice for their families, a pull toward the fight.  They would never escape it, not if they wanted to protect their families, to find any peace in this life.  And they’d both grown in their acceptance of their place in this tumultuous world.  Robb had learned to truly embrace being the King in the North.  Margaery had given up the idea of being The Queen.

He thought about her as he cut through Lannister soldiers.  He had to live, for Sansa and Jon and Winterfell, but for Margaery too.  He fought differently now.  Grey Wind was no longer at his side, but he had another companion since rising after the Red Wedding.  Death sharpened the edge of his sword, now.  Death whispered in his ear, guided his instincts.  Death was a part of him, a part of Jon, a part of Beric Dondarrion.  Death never fully left those who were brought back from it.  But talking to Margaery had made him feel alive, and he yearned to speak to her again.

He thought about her as he stood in the great hall, watching his men yank down the Lannister banners that hung.  His hand rested on his sword on his hip as he looked around this loathsome place that had bred such loathsome people, and as he waited for the Queen’s envoy, all he could think was how much he wanted to find the godswood and see if Margaery was waiting to speak with him.

His thoughts were interrupted by one of the most unexpected of voices.  He’d known Tyrion Lannister had aligned himself with the Targaryen queen, but he didn’t expect to see the man.  In hindsight, he realized, he should have.  Who better than to plan the attack on Casterly Rock than someone who knew it like home?

Robb watched, nonplussed, as the dwarf spoke so boisterously of wine.  Wine was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

“I’m sure you know where the secret stores are hidden, Lord Tyrion.  Or is it My Lord Hand now?”

Tyrion laughed, “Indeed I do, your grace, but I’ll find them later.”  He looked over his shoulder at an Unsullied troop. “Do be a good lad and bring that barrel of wine we picked up in the Arbor, would you?  I haven’t been home in years, and I mean to celebrate.”  Tyrion looked at Robb.  “Call me as you like, your grace, for whichever you choose, I’ve been called much worse.”

Robb let out a short, silent laugh as he watched Tyrion.  Once, he’d held nothing but contempt for the man, but time had changed many things.  “Very well, then, Lord Tyrion.  I hope you’re not offended that we’ve pulled down the lion banners.”  Robb didn’t mean the words, not really, he’d given the order because he hated the sight of all these prancing lions, but he could tell Tyrion knew that.

Unsullied soldiers returned with a barrel and Tyrion was quick to get himself a glass, taking a long sip and savoring the flavor before responding.  “To be frank, your grace, I haven’t liked being called a lion in quite some time.”  

Tyrion took another long sip after his words, and Robb thought he could see something like pain in the man’s eyes.  He had killed his father, been damned by his sister.  Perhaps Tyrion wanted to distance himself from his family.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t Robb’s business.

Robb took an offered goblet of wine as he watched the Unsullied hang the black and red three headed dragon banners of House Targaryen around the room, thinking to himself of the times he saw images of the sigil in his books as a child -- gods, it felt like so long ago that he was a child -- always imagining the Targaryens were a house that was long gone, never to rise again.

He opened his mouth to ask Lord Tyrion how to proceed next, not much interested in small talk when his mind was in the godswood, but his words died in his throat and the goblet slipped out of his hands when he turned at the sound of footsteps entering the hall and saw a vision in green and gold, followed by a retinue of Tyrell soldiers.

“Margaery!”  he exclaimed in shock, not expecting her to be part of the battle.  She smiled back and rushed toward him, and he ran toward her in return.

The both stopped short as they reached each other, eyes wide.  He could hear his heart beating in his ears, the way it was in battle when time seemed to slow down.  Everything was perfectly quiet and still for what felt like the longest of moments,

And then she lifted her hand, palm flat, right in front of her, just like that first day in the godswood.

Robb lifted his hand, too, and he half-expected it to pass right through hers.  Maybe he was still dead.  Maybe Margaery was the only person in the world letting him know he was still a ghost, clinging to an imaginary wish of the world because he’d left it in too much pain, and he’d never been able to touch her to truly know she was real.  That he was real.

But her hand was soft, and warm, and smooth.   And as their fingers intertwined and they squeezed each other’s hands, her smile lit up the disappointingly dull room.

His hands were rough and calloused from year handling a sword and battle.  His armor was spattered with blood.  But she held onto his hand tightly, and she grabbed his other hand, holding it to her face and closing her eyes, as if to savor the ability to touch him.  Time was still standing still, and the room around him disappeared.  Robb did not notice Ellaria Sand enter the room with the Martell troops.  He did not notice Lord Tyrion watching in amusement while filling his second glass of wine.  His senses perceived only Margaery: soft, warm, beautiful, brave Margaery.

He held onto her hand and he kept his other hand on her face as he leaned in and kissed her.  It wasn’t a kiss of courtship, it wasn’t a kiss he should have given her in front of so many people.  It was a kiss of hunger, of deprivation.  It was the kiss he never allowed himself to want when he couldn’t even hold her hand back in the godswood.

And Margaery kissed him back with the same hunger.

* * *

Lord Tyrion was just as witty and perceptive as she had remembered.  He made their excuses for them as they left the room.  She didn’t bother to offer any platitudes as she and Robb rushed out of the great hall.  She held his hand still and looked around the halls of this foreign castle, climbing the first flight of stairs she saw.

It led, predictably, to the master’s chambers.  Perhaps she should leave it for Lord Tyrion, but it was the closest private chambers she could find, and once they were inside, she shut and barred the door.

Margaery leaned against the door and looked at Robb before her, laughing and smiling and feeling breathless from their flight up the stairs.

“Look at you.”

“Look at _you_ ,” he replied with a crooked grin, but his face softened after a moment and his voice was almost tender sounding when he continued, “We made it.”

He stepped closer and she could feel her chest heave a little to feel the warmth of his body near hers.  “The war’s not over,” she whispered back, her hands moving to begin to remove his bloody armor.

“No,” he said, keeping the same hushed whisper she spoke with, “the war isn’t over, but we made it to each other.”  

Margaery tilted her head as she felt his lips brush across her throat. His beard tickled her skin, making her close her eyes and smile.  She shrugged as he pushed off her cloak, her hands abandoning his armor for a moment as she grabbed his face in both of her hands and kissed him again with the same sort of passion they shared in the Great Hall.

It was passion that alarmed her, passion that she should have seen coming but didn’t.  How did she not see it coming?  She knew so much about how to pick up cues on the way men felt, Grandmother had taught her so much about these things.  Moreover, how could she have not seen what was in her own heart?  She had spent so much time thinking about the world and how to fix it that she didn’t take the time to examine her own desires.

Her hands moved to push the pauldrons off his shoulders, but he caught her wrists before she could move to remove the rest of his armor, taking a step back and letting go of her.  She watched him curiously as he breathed heavily.

“We should…. I would not… I have given in to my passions without doing things the proper way before, my dearest Margaery, and I will not make that mistake again.  It would not be honorable to do this; we are neither wed nor betrothed.  I’ve no permission from your father to act in this way.”  

The words sounded like a struggle, and Robb was so flustered, that Margaery had to hold back a laugh.

She stepped closer, and it was all so clear now.  Grandmother had given her full power to make decisions on behalf of the family.  “Unfettered,” was the word Grandmother had used, telling Margaery that she was trusted to do what was right for the family.  To make her own choices.

“Oh, Robb,” she said with a smile and a gentle laugh as she lifted her hands to cradle his face, gently this time.  “You have married for love and forsaken duty.  I have forsaken love and married only for duty.  We were both wrong, don’t you see?  We both want both.  We both _need_ both.”

She moved her hands from his face to take his in hers and look down at them, a small smile on her lips as she knew her next words would be bold, unheard of, even, but she also knew Robb.  She knew they would be welcome.

“I have been given permission to make alliances and decisions on behalf of my house.  I, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, do hereby ask you, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, if you would consent to be my husband?”

She enjoyed very much the look on his face, a look of wonder, of astonishment, of joy.  She had surprised him again, as he had surprised her so many times.  He was nothing like any of her other husbands, he was nothing like any man she’d known.  And she knew she was different to him, too.  What king expects such a bold marriage proposal?

When he answered, it wasn’t with a “yes” or a “no.”  It was with a question.

“Should we find Lord Tyrion and have him perform the ceremony in the godswood now?”

Margaery laughed.  “You don’t want to wait, do you?  Neither do I.  I’m too eager for the bedding.  We’ll skip the feast.”

She’d had three weddings, all of them appropriately lavish, all of them wearing a gown fit for a queen.  She’d had feasts and celebrations and she did not care about any of that right now.  This time, the ceremony was brief, and as soon as it was over, they returned to the master’s chambers.

The war was not over.  Enemies living and the dead still sought to tear them down.  But she made love to her husband that night in the bed of Lord of Casterly Rock.  And she _loved_ her husband, the look of him, the feel of him.  Their houses united the Reach and the North, the wealthiest and the largest kingdoms of the realm together.  She felt victory, and passion, and love, and solace and truth in that bed.  The truth she'd seen her brother have with Renly, but never known for herself.

She was a queen again.  The Queen in the North.  But for the first time in her life, she did not care about the title.  

And for the first time since escaping the Sept of Baelor with Loras, she cared about more than just retribution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay soooo... I did not get this done in a week as I first promised, sorry guys! I'm sickly AND I had to move unexpectedly, life happens. But I am so grateful for all the wonderful feedback and I really hope you enjoyed the conclusion!


End file.
